


Apples and Maple Orange

by Ansomniac



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Related, Childhood Friends, First Kiss, Fluff, Gay Panic, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Teenage Dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 10:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18602401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ansomniac/pseuds/Ansomniac
Summary: "Alfred tasted like apples—a little sour, maybe bitter, but sweet in a way that it isn’t overwhelming."A fic for my friend, Marty for their birthday.





	Apples and Maple Orange

**Author's Note:**

> Hi you funky little huperchild. If you're Marty, I am deeply sorry. If you are one of the Daddies, I will eat your toes. If you are none of the above, I am sorry again. Please ignore this trainwreck.

Alfred tasted like apples—a little sour, maybe bitter, but sweet in a way that it isn’t overwhelming, like the apples of the humongous apple pie he brought which they ate together downstairs.

He opened his eyes only to find the closed eyelids of the blond, brows furrowed as he leaned in to press his lips on Matthew’s. That look of concentration, those long eyelashes, and oh—they fluttered open—blue eyes…

He found that he had never loved Alfred more than he had now.

They parted slowly, reluctantly, still maintaining eye contact as they withdrew. Matthew’s eyes flicked over to the American’s moistened lips. It was magnetic, and if they came close to one another again, they can’t pull away. He cursed at some heavenly authority above for allowing them to separate at all.

However, before he could steal another kiss, Alfred smiled up at him. It wasn’t the usual, self-assured smile with eyes that shone in confidence; it was almost bashful and… genuinely _happy_ , Matthew realized. Alfred F. Jones is happy.

“All right?” Alfred asked. Matthew nodded. He opened his mouth—presumably to speak about trivial things—but was promptly silenced by the insistent press on his mouth once more. He didn’t complain.

Matthew wanted to say that he had forgotten how they ended up in a tangle of limbs, Alfred leaning over him while he was sitting on a beanbag. However, to the Canadian, he couldn’t dispose of any memory which pertained to the boy; his face, his hands, his smile were ingrained within his brain, easily conjured whenever he had a bad day, even being brought to the forefront of his thoughts at the most inconvenient of times.

It was supposed to be a normal hangout, of course—not that it ended normally.

Alfred F. Jones was the neighborhood wonder-boy, of course. Good grades, good looks, good personality—he was the ideal of every man and woman. Matthew had the benefit of having known him since they were children, and although he wasn’t the most popular around the block, he could keep up with him.

Even then, Matthew was uncertain about himself. He was too quiet, avoided conflict when he could, and had a sharp tongue when he was angry, although rare. Alfred, meanwhile, had his own fair share of flaws, but more than made it up with everything else. It was silly how predictable his crush was, how plot cliche it was for Matthew to fall in love with his best friend.

The Canadian had his own special bin of broken pencils when he thought of all the girls fawning over the boy.

He moved to the United States quite early, which meant that he couldn’t imagine a time where he didn’t know the energetic American. He had been there when he was alone, pushing sand around in the box. He had been there when he cried because no one picked him for the team or asked to play.

Matthew thinks that he had always loved Alfred, but it only shifted when they grew older. He simply realized it one autumn day when the blue-eyed blond offered him a smile brighter than the sun at its peak and when the other boy wanted to accept it and keep it forever.

Today, Alfred visited to goof around as per usual—watch a show or two on the TV, laugh about the ridiculity of it all and switch to the next show. It wasn’t supposed to be anything more. Funny how life works.

The first half went by normally, quickly. First, they ate together downstairs with the food they brought—Alfred brought his own apple pie while Matthew stuck to his beloved pancakes. They later went upstairs and laughed about Dora due to the random channel Matthew’s intelligently idiotic friend switched to. They even made fun of adult swim.

However, when it was Matthew’s turn to turn to a new channel, he paused at a romantic movie in front of him. It was oddly explicit, too, for television broadcasted for the masses. Normally, he would readily tease it too, but it was—well, all Matthew could do was combust at the sight of two men getting it on with one another.

“Oh wow,” Alfred murmured in astonishment before, as if he had discovered the meaning to life.

Matthew cleared his throat. “Oh, um, I’ll just switch over to a new channel—”

Alfred took his wrist and pulled it away in protest. “No, no, this is funny! Look, Mattie, they’re…”

Matthew saw Alfred’s eyes widen and his breath hitch as he turned to look to his friend. His blue eyes shone in recognition, realization. He turned his wrist over like a scientist interested in a new specimen, observing it with his microscope of eyes to examine the details. Matthew found it hard to breathe as well because he was _found out, found out, found out, and he’s gay, and he’s gay for his best friend_ —

“Woah dude, I can feel your heartbeat through your wrist! I’ve really got you going,” Alfred said as he thumbed at it. Matthew shifted in discomfort. “Why, did something happen? Was it about the-”

Matthew wanted to cry.

“It’s nothing, Alfie, can we just… can we just please return to watching again?”

This time, Alfred turned back to Matthew, although with a frown. He slowly released his wrist and the boy withdrew it much faster. _Damn you, Williams, for being so obvious,_ he reprimanded himself.

“Matthew…”

“Please.”

Now Alfred’s looking so concerned, brows fully scrunched in dismay as if he made a startling realization. Perhaps the startling realization that his best friend is queer and therefore he cannot hang around with him anymore or he’ll start to have weird thoughts and—well, he already has them—

“And I’m begging you, Matthew. If you just… I know you know, so if you want me to fuck off, I will—”

 _What? Why would I want him to go away?_ Alfred should be wanting Matthew to get away from _him_. He’s gay, and _so much so_ for his friend that he wants to take him piece by piece until there is nothing left.

“Alfred, no, of course I don’t.” His voice came out steady, which surprised himself.

“Then why?” Alfred snapped. “Why do you look so uncomfortable whenever I say something remotely referring to… this or whatever? I was hoping I wasn’t being obvious, but you know how bad I am with containing my emotions.”

This was the first time the American had ever glared at Matthew or hell, snapped at him, and thank God this was the first. It was rare for Alfred to be genuinely angry.

“Alfred, I can’t be any more transparent. I—I just don’t want to endanger our friendship. Just because I love you like that doesn’t mean you can… you can just brush off my feelings.”

At that, Alfred’s eyes widened in shock as if someone had slapped him squarely in the face. “Matthew, what did you say?”

“I said that just because I love you—”

“You do?” Weirdly, there was a tinge of hope there, although watered down with caution.

Matthew threw his own dirty look at his best-friend, soon to be former. “Yes, but don’t rub it in my—”

He didn’t know when he was interrupted, didn’t know when a force pushed him to the ground and a softer one slotted itself on to his lips. He blinked, a little dizzy from the impact, and unaware of—

Now he was aware of it. Hyper-aware. He could hear thousands of languages being spoken at once, all the laughter and joy in the world chorusing with the beaten and the damned. He was everywhere at once, nowhere yet, but what existed and will continue to exist is lips on lips, body on body, fingers intertwined—

And it was a kiss. Just a kiss.

It was just the exchange of lips and disgusting bodily fluids, and nothing more; yet Matthew was secretly a romantic, and he was in a battle with his far more rational, logical side.

They could have been doing this a long time ago, if only they communicated. If only they came and said it outright, _I’m in love with you_. Alfred and Matthew thought they knew each other more than themselves—and they were right, but they were wrong.

They separated.

“You taste like maple,” Alfred said absentmindedly.

To shut him up, Matthew pulled him in for another kiss. And then another. And then another. He definitely tasted like apples.


End file.
